


Don't Lose Faith - Deleted Scenes

by charlock221



Series: Don't Lose Faith [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Friendship, Gen, Humour, bit of bromance too
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-18
Updated: 2013-11-28
Packaged: 2018-01-02 00:22:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 18,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1050335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charlock221/pseuds/charlock221
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Scenes that were not included in my story 'Don't Lose Faith' for one reason or another. They'll vary in length, characters and scenes, focusing on different parts of the story and providing a little more insight into thoughts, motives and feelings. I would really recommend reading the original before moving onto this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. John and Mycroft

**Author's Note:**

> I would thoroughly recommend reading my other story - Don't Lose Faith - first, because unless you can guess an entire plot from a deleted chapter, you're not going to have a clue what's going on.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John tends to Mycroft after the explosion and some fears are discouraged

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is set after Milverton's offices have blown up, and Sherlock has just stormed out of the flat having almost killed Milverton before John talked him out of it.

The sling had only been on for an hour but it was already itching. John tried not to scratch it as he sat in a cab, worrying instead about the condition Mycroft was going to be in. He hoped the government official had gotten away in time as there was no predicting the extent of a blast, and it would be easy to think you were in the clear when really you were far too close, John knew all too well.

And, God, John didn't want to think about the state Sherlock might be in now. Seeing that look of pure, utter horror cross the detective's face as the building exploded was an image John hoped he would never have to see again. And it was something he hoped Sherlock wouldn't have to repeat, because he didn't think he'd be able to let Sherlock continue believing something like this again, it would break his heart.

He wished this hadn't happened. Well, who wouldn't? But having found those plans for a bomb when they were searching Milverton's office, John knew he was going to be involved whether he wanted to or not. Of course he would have helped Mycroft with whatever he needed, but now, having seen the effect Mycroft's supposed death has had on his little brother, he wished dearly to be able to tell Sherlock that it was all a lie, that Mycroft was alive.

But he couldn't because neither he nor Mycroft knew if Milverton had means of getting to Sherlock, even from jail. It was too risky at the moment, and John longed for the day where this would all blow over and things could go back to the way they were. He hoped that day was soon. It would have to be, because John didn't know how destructive Sherlock was going to be in the coming weeks.

Just now had been evidence enough of what was to come, what with Sherlock shouting and grabbing his sprained arm in a fit of anger. Yes, both the words and the actions hurt but John didn't blame him for it. How could he, when Sherlock thought his brother had just been killed? He knew he would have reacted the same way if he was led to believe someone had harmed Harriet.

Hell, he _had_ reacted the same way after Sherlock had jumped off St. Bart's. He'd shouted and yelled at Mycroft and told him to get out whenever he visited. No, he didn't physically do anything, but he knew when emotions took a hold of Sherlock, they were strong and fierce because the detective wasn't used to controlling them.

The cab finally pulled up outside Mycroft's estate, and John tried not to feel too intimidated by the grand building. As he walked up to the door, he wondered if Mycroft ever got lonely. He pushed the thought aside and without bothering to knock, he pushed open the front door and stepped inside. Mycroft had told him he'd be in his drawing room, though _where_ that was John had no idea, and it took him a good five minutes to finally find it, despite it being on the ground floor.

Opening the door, his eyes quickly flickered to Mycroft, who was sat at a table and rubbing a hand over his face wearily. He didn't even glance up when John marched in.

Placing his medical bag on the table - which he'd managed to grab after leaving the hospital - John unzipped it and began rummaging through the contents.

"Alright?" he asked. Mycroft hummed in response, not looking up.

"Let me see you, Mycroft." he said, gently removing his hand from his face. He tried not to show his shock at the blood running from a wound on Mycroft's left cheek and instead moved closer, examining the slice thoroughly.

"That's going to need stitches, I'm afraid." he said softly, and Mycroft nodded. He shifted so that his legs were no longer under the table and rather facing outwards so John would not have to lean across the wooded desk to reach him.

As John began to prepare the needle and sutures, he glanced again at the elder Holmes. Mycroft looked sullen and weary, and John softened. Yes, maybe he didn't like being in this position, but he hadn't even thought about what Mycroft must have been going through.

He sighed before speaking again. "Do you want me to apply an anaesthetic?" he asked. Mycroft shook his head, and John frowned.

"Are you sure? It's going to be painful otherwise." he pressed, swiftly cleaning the wound with an antiseptic wipe.

"It's fine, John." he said quietly, and John decided not to argue.

"Alright, hold still." Whilst working quickly but efficiently to reduce the time Mycroft would spend in pain, John tried to determine the best way of getting the man opposite him to open up. The government official winced when the needle pierced his skin but did nothing more. He remained quiet throughout the time John was working, and when he finished, Mycroft leaned back in his chair as the doctor threw away the excess suture. Other than that major wound, none of the other scrapes stood out as being in need of immediate care. Besides the soot-covered, torn clothes and the cuts and bruises, Mycroft seemed better than he'd hoped.

"I can give you some painkillers if you want or... no? Are you sure?" Mycroft shook his head again. "Alright, fine, but at least let me get you a drink." When the other man didn't respond, John moved away from the table and began to search the nearby cabinets.

"Where do you keep your...?"

"Left-hand side." Mycroft muttered, and John found the appropriate one and drew out a crystal decanter filled with brandy and a tumbler before returning and pouring out a glass, handing it to Mycroft who took it with a muttered "thank you".

John sat down opposite him and moved his bag to the floor. He then looked across at Mycroft, who was staring down into his glass morosely.

"Mycroft," he said gently. "Please don't beat yourself up over this. You said yourself that this had to be done, that we need to ensure Sherlock isn't going to be in danger. There's nothing to feel ashamed about."

The elder Holmes finally glanced up at him. "What was Sherlock like?" he asked quietly. "When the building exploded?"

John hesitated, then decided to tell the truth, knowing that Mycroft should know. "He was... distressed. You saw what he was like in the car park, and when the offices blew up he just looked defeated, really. I thought for a moment he had fainted because I felt him slump against me, but I think his legs just gave out due to the shock."

Mycroft bowed his head, and John tried to catch his gaze. "He's strong, Mycroft, he'll get through this. It's not permanent, don't forget, so the two of you will be back to bickering in no time." he added with a soft smile.

He saw Mycroft attempt a smirk, but it vanished as quickly as it appeared. "I had no idea he'd be so affected." he murmured, resting his head in his hand and fiddling with his tumbler.

"You're his brother, of course he was going to be affected. You don't really think he hates you, do you?" John scoffed.

"No, don't be ridiculous..." Mycroft started to say, but he trailed off, his tone lacking the verve he had been aiming for.

John winced at the thought of the man in front of him always being led to believe Sherlock did not need nor want him. He shifted and gripped Mycroft's arm, gaining the other's attention.

"Look," he began. "I don't know what caused this feud between the two of you, and I'm not one to pry, but you must believe me, Mycroft, when I say that Sherlock _is_ thankful for you. Yes, sometimes you can be a little overbearing and protective, but I'm sure Sherlock would much prefer that sort of brother than one who never contacted him at all.

"He's... dare I say it, he's naïve, and the whole sentiment thing is new to him. I know that he's strong enough and has enough will to fend for himself, but whenever emotions do get the better of him, he starts to panic. I think in your case... being snarky and sarcastic is the only way he knows how to communicate with you, and if he ever does need something, he'll just increase the snarky-ness until you can infer what he wants and he can go on to call you interfering and nosy when you _do_ complete the task.

"So of course he's going to be affected by your death, and I know you'd be just as distraught at his. The fact that you have a rocky relationship proves nothing in regards to how much you care for one another."

Throughout his speech, Mycroft's troubled expression had deepened, and John immediately took that as a bad sign.

"I'm sorry, that was too invasive." he began to backtrack, knowing that neither of them needed to pour their souls out at a time like this. "I should be going, actually, I need to check on Sherlock." He got up from his seat and bent to pick up his bag, then headed for the door. "If you need anything, any help with tracking people or whatever, then you know, just give me a call." John reached for the door handle, but was halted by Mycroft.

"John, wait." the doctor turned and waited for the elder Holmes to speak.

"Thank you... for that. I think I needed to hear it." Mycroft said softly. John smiled.

"Anytime." he replied.

"Are _you_ alright?" Mycroft asked suddenly, looking up with raised eyebrows. "What with your arm and all... Sherlock hasn't been too hard on you, I hope?"

"It's fine." John said with a brief smile, before turning to the door again.

"John, I know you're lying..." But the doctor had already left, leaving Mycroft to finish his brandy and contemplate the quickest way to relieve his little brother of his grief.


	2. Sherlock and Milverton

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock visits the last person he'd ever hoped to see again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set after 'Don't Lose Faith', maybe two weeks or so after John and Mary's wedding

"Sherlock... Milverton wants to arrange a meeting."

Everybody in 221B froze. John and Mary looked across at Greg from their position on the sofa, and in the kitchen the sound of Mrs Hudson gasping could be heard. Greg fidgeted in the doorway of the flat, obviously reluctant to give the news, and slowly every head turned towards the figure stood by the window and holding his violin.

Still with his back to the room, Sherlock slowly placed his violin on his armchair, his hand remaining on the wooden neck.

"And why would he want to do that?" he asked quietly, his icy eyes rising to meet the DI's worried ones.

"I don't know, Sherlock, but I'm obliged to at least tell you." Greg said, shaking his head. "I know you don't want to but you should know–"

"I'll go." the detective interrupted.

"What?" Greg and John said at the same time, both men looking at him with shocked expressions.

"You heard me." Sherlock responded, moving from the window to pull on his coat and scarf.

John got up from the couch and moved to stand next to Greg in front of the doorway. "Sherlock, you don't have to do this if you don't want to."

"I would have thought it was obvious I do want to." Sherlock answered with an exasperated sigh.

"Why?" John asked incredulously.

"I'd like to have a chat with him."

Greg shifted. "Sherlock, you know that you're not allowed to actually cause any bodily harm to him–"

"Of course I know that, Inspector, don't be obtuse." Sherlock said timidly.

There was a brief silence as everybody took time to absorb what was happening.

Mrs Hudson emerged from the kitchen and placed a hand on Sherlock's arm. "Are you sure, dear?" she asked quietly. "That man did something awful to you and your brother, it might upset you seeing him again."

Sherlock turned to her and smiled softly. "I'll be fine, Mrs Hudson." He turned back to the door and raised his eyebrows at John, who was still barricading the way with his arms crossed.

"Do you want me to come with you?" John asked hesitantly.

Sherlock released a breath. "No, I think I can cope on my own for a few hours." he said shortly.

John closed his eyes. "That wasn't what I was saying, Sherlock." he said.

The detective's tone softened. "I know. I'll be fine, I told you."

Even though it was clear John didn't have the same view, the doctor stepped away from the door, his arms falling to his side.

"You can start dinner without me." Sherlock said and then started down the stairs.

"Sorry for interrupting." Greg said apologetically. John waved him off and with a weak smile the DI followed Sherlock out.

* * *

"Sure you want to do this, Sherlock?" Greg asked for the fourth time since walking into the prison.

"Positive." Sherlock replied with a sigh as he was led into a large hall filled with tables, obviously the area where families or friends met with those in jail. The hall was empty and Sherlock sat down at one of the tables in the middle of the room without waiting for Greg to direct him.

Lestrade looked at his watch. "They should be bringing him here shortly." he said. "Want me to wait with you?"

"No." Sherlock answered.

"Alright, I'll just be outside–"

"You can go, Inspector. I can get home by myself." he said.

Greg sighed. "Fine. See you later." He patted Sherlock on the shoulder before turning and walking out the way he came.

Left to his own thoughts, Sherlock tapped his finger against his thigh impatiently. Yes, he had agreed to come, here, but that didn't mean he didn't want to leave as soon as possible. After all, this man was under the impression he'd killed Mycroft. A man whom Sherlock had been close to in his younger years and had trusted wholeheartedly had tried to destroy him in more than one way.

So yes, he wasn't particularly keen on staying.

Ten minutes passed before Sherlock heard the clang of a distant prison door. He remained in his chair and watched as moments later Charlie Milverton was led out, stationed between two guards. They marched him forward and shoved him down into a chair opposite Sherlock, handcuffing one of his wrists to the table. Throughout the whole time, Milverton had been staring at Sherlock with a slight smile on his face.

The blackmailer had lost weight, Sherlock noticed, and the grey uniform he was wearing served only to accentuate his weight loss and also highlight the pasty pallor of his skin. Not coping well, then. Good.

When the guard finished handcuffing him, they stepped back and walked past Sherlock to leave. On their way past, one of the guards told Sherlock to knock on the door when he wanted to go. The detective nodded and soon they were left alone.

The two spent the first few minutes simply studying each other. Sherlock was able to pick up on more and more things that proved Milverton was struggling, and with each thing a little sense of contentment blossomed inside. He could only begin to guess what Milverton was seeing in him, and he wondered if the blackmailer knew Mycroft had survived the explosion.

"You wanted to see me?" Sherlock broke the silence, his voice echoing around the empty room.

"Yes." Milverton answered, nodding. Sherlock leant back in his seat and crossed his arms.

"Well?" he asked shortly.

Milverton smiled smugly. "How's life?" he asked curiously, tilting his head.

"Dandy." Sherlock replied, not giving anything more and waiting for Milverton to continue.

"Good, good." the blackmailer murmured. "Well, it's nice to see you're coping." he said, lifting his eyebrows and smiling again.

"Coping?" Sherlock repeated, fighting to keep the bored tone out of his voice. He could already see where this was going.

"Yes, you're doing remarkably well. I was expecting to see someone a little more... broken."

"Is that so?" Sherlock muttered.

"Mmm. Emotions always were something that baffled you. I'm surprised to see you're handling things so well. After all, you were oh so close to your brother, his death was bound to hurt." he taunted, and Sherlock only barely managed not to roll his eyes.

"Still jealous?" he asked. "Jealous of something that happened over ten years ago?"

"It would make no difference as to whether or not I was jealous. I've gotten what I've wanted, anyhow."

Sherlock hummed to show he was listening, deciding now to just sit back and let Milverton say what it was he had planned.

"Oh yes, everything went splendidly, don't you think? I'd been planning on getting back at you for a while now, and when dear Mary Morstan contacted me it was the perfect opportunity. I of course was able to connect her to Dr. Watson, and he to you, so it took me almost no time at all to change my plans and focus my efforts onto you and your brother. The bomb was, you see, initially intended for Mary."

"What?" Sherlock snapped, forgetting his decision to remain silent. His eyes roamed over Milverton to see whether he was telling the truth, and when he detected no signs of lying, he felt anger begin to bubble within him.

"I think you heard me, Sherlock." Milverton said with a sly smile now that he'd coaxed a reaction out of the detective. "I was planning on blowing her up, it's true. But when I connected the dots and found you, I knew it would be much more fun to play with your charming older brother. Did he beg for you to get him out in time? Or was he demanding that you leave him to die? Yes, that sounds much more like him I think."

Sherlock gritted his teeth, trying not to let the memories of Mycroft commanding John to get them out of the car park before it was too late flood him. The pure fear he'd felt at the realisation he was going to lose his brother was a feeling he hoped never to feel again. And the thought that it could have been John in his position, with Mary tied to the chair and he himself trying to drag the doctor away only served to fuel his anger. He realised now that this was why Milverton had wanted to see him. To gloat. He wanted to brag and boast about how he had bested the world's only consulting detective, to reveal how much worse he'd been planning to make it for his friends, knowing the sort of reaction it would provoke.

He leaned forwards, his eyes blazing. "You're lucky John was there to stop me from killing you." he growled. "Because believe me, there is nothing I would like more than to rip you apart."

Milverton grinned at him, slightly manic. "You're weak, Sherlock Holmes." he said. "Weak. And I don't know how you plan on dealing with the big wide world now that big brother isn't here to coddle and protect you."

A door opened and closed behind Sherlock, the sound resounding around the room. He watched as Milverton froze at something behind the detective's shoulder. Sherlock didn't need to turn around to know who was stood there. Slowly, he got to his feet.

"Maybe I'm weak." he rumbled. "But at least I don't have to worry about how long I've got left to live." he said, and what he was implying did not pass Milverton, for he noted with some smugness how the blackmailer lost all colour to his face, and his eyes sought out the newcomer's.

"I-I'm sorry." he stuttered, close to begging. "Don't kill me, please don't kill me."

Sherlock smirked. "It'd be intriguing to see if you manage to persuade him, but I'm afraid I've got to dash. Lovely chatting with you." He turned and marched back to the door, his eyes connecting with Mycroft's stony ones.

The two brothers exchanged a knowing glance before Sherlock left, leaving his big brother to deal with Milverton however he pleased.


	3. Sherlock and Harriet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock seeks out Harriet in order to apologise and in return is assured about things he was beginning to doubt.

Sherlock rang the doorbell to John and Mary's flat and then took a step back, waiting for someone to answer. It was snowing outside, and Sherlock pulled his coat tighter around himself to keep out the chill. The street looked scenic in the evening with all the streetlights creating a soft glow as snow fell slowly and landed on the pavement, the footprints of people rushing by earlier still ingrained in it. A couple walked past Sherlock, eyes only for each other, and Sherlock only just managed not to sneer outwardly.

The front door opened and John looked out, dressed in dark jeans, red pullover and a navy blazer. He frowned at Sherlock, clearly not expecting to see him.

"Sherlock." he said. "Everything okay?"

"Yes, everything's fine." Sherlock answered. "May I come in?"

John looked torn, looking from his friend to back inside. "We're now about to go out." he said, glancing at Sherlock with an impatient yet apologetic expression. "I told you yesterday when I invited you but you didn't want to go–"

"Yes, I know. I only want to talk to your sister and then I'll be on my way." Sherlock said, looking away and wishing he could be back at Baker Street.

"Harry?" John asked. "Why do you want to speak to her?"

The detective gave him a look that clearly said _none of your business_ , and John sighed, stepping aside to let Sherlock in.

"Alright, but you'll have to be quick. The table's been booked for six." he said as Sherlock brushed past him and walked up the stairs and into the living room. Mary and Harry were chatting when he came in, dressed smartly and ready to leave. There eyes were drawn as he entered, and Mary raised her eyebrows whilst Harriet looked away.

"Sherlock." Mary greeted him. "You alright?"

Why did they assume something was wrong with him? "Fine, Mary." he said with a forced smile.

John entered behind him. "Mary, will you just help me with something?" he asked, inclining his head to the doorway. His wife frowned, but soon walked out with John following.

Harriet was all but stood with her back to Sherlock, staring at the wall. She was wearing a short black dress and blue overcoat with her hair tied into a neat ponytail. Sherlock cleared his throat but Harry did nothing.

"Harriet..." Sherlock said in an attempt to get her attention. It didn't work.

The detective looked down at his feet. "I am here to... apologise for my behaviour last month." he began, hating himself for doing this, even though he knew it was necessary. John had told him – without meaning to implicate him – that since he'd snapped at Harry, she'd gone back to drinking, despite slowly recovering beforehand. John of course hadn't mentioned that this hadhappened after Sherlock had thrown her out, but the detective had been able to connect the two events. He knew John wasn't expecting him to make amends, but Sherlock thought he might as well try and help, especially as it was nearing Christmas and the temptation for alcohol would be even stronger. So, here he was.

Having heard him, Harry looked at him sharply, clearly not believing him.

He continued. "It was cruel of me to list your flaws," She frowned, and Sherlock quickly rephrased the sentence. "I shouldn't have said those things out loud – I mean there was no need for you to realise I was correct – no, that's not right–"

To his utter surprise, Harry chuckled, effectively cutting him off. He stared at her with a frown. Even _he_ knew what he'd said would only make things worse in any other situation.

"Don't worry about it." she said, shaking her head.

"I apologise." he said instead, deciding that the less he said, the better.

"It's fine, Sherlock." Harry responded. "At the time, I didn't know you were grieving so it was probably bad timing on my part. You needed something to take your frustration out on, and what better person than one who only gets through the day with several drinks in her system?" she asked with a bitter smile.

Sherlock sank down onto the sofa, crossing his arms. Harry perched in the armchair opposite.

"And anyway, the reason I was there in the first place was to say sorry for waking you at whatever time in the morning it was that night." she said.

"Three-thirty." Sherlock answered automatically, eliciting a smile out of Harry.

"Right. So yeah, sorry."

Sherlock shrugged. "I was awake anyway." he said aloofly.

"Looking after my brother, so I hear." she said softly, but Sherlock frowned.

"I wasn't _looking after him_ ," he replied. "I just happened to be in the same room–"

"Whilst he grieved after the loss of his fiancée." Harry finished determinedly. "But still, it's good he had someone with him during that time. I doubt he would have wanted me around."

Sherlock didn't reply, instead he studied the woman opposite him. She looked better than the last time he saw her, shouting her out of his flat. She still looked tired and weary, and he noticed that her hands were shaking, but there were no signs of desperation, no signs of absolute _need_ for a drink, which was something he had noticed previously.

Harry chuckled humourlessly, and Sherlock frowned at her, the question evident in his eyes.

She shook her head. "Nothing, just thinking." She laughed again. "How screwed-up are we?" she asked quietly, the question rhetorical.

Well, she was honest, he'd give her that. Sherlock didn't deny it or try to argue against her. He remained silent, knowing she was going to continue.

"Both of us have dysfunctional families..." Harry caught his raised eyebrows and smiled. "Yes, maybe yours more than mine but that doesn't mean we Watsons are perfect. The alcoholism had to come from somewhere, didn't it?" she asked.

"Where did it come from?" Sherlock questioned, sensing that this was something she wanted to get off her chest.

She sighed heavily and picked at her coat sleeve. "An alcoholic father, for one." she said.

"Abusive?" Sherlock asked warily, his mind trying to recall if John had ever said something, and he noted with some surprise that the doctor had never spoken of his childhood.

"Neglectful." Harry corrected. "Started drinking when Mum offed herself." She said it bluntly, and Sherlock had to force himself not to bombard her with questions, the shock hitting him like a train. "Me and John were only little when it happened. Swallowed a bottle of pills and Dad found her when he got back from work. We got taken out of school and stayed at our aunt's for a bit. When we came home, Dad was more distant. He got angry at little things, and never paid us much attention. We ended up cooking our own meals and whatnot. I don't know, I guess he never recovered."

Harry shook her head solemnly. "And look what became of it. The daughter who drank herself into the gutter to escape and the son who got so sick of it he joined the army." Another humourless chuckle escaped her as she glanced up at Sherlock. "I'm saying this to you as if you're some kind of therapist." she said. "You certainly look like one."

Sherlock looked down at his clothing. He didn't imagine many therapists wearing Belstaff coats and blue scarves to their appointments.

Harry clearly caught on and gave a small smile. "I meant your posture." she clarified. "One leg over the other and leaning forward. Give you a pen and paper and we're away."

Sherlock smirked. Her humour was similar to John's, and it was easy to see the family resemblance.

Harry was still talking though. "At least John has you and Mary." she said with a sad smile. "He doesn't need me anymore. Though to be fair, he's always managed on his own."

Sherlock shook his head. "He cares for you, Harry. You are loved." he said as if it was the most obvious thing in the world, and she broke into a large smile. He smiled slightly in return, although he feared it wavered. He didn't entirely agree with Harry's statement, that John needed him. After all, he had Mary now and they seem perfectly happy together. What can a sociopath do to keep up with the love radiating from a happy marriage? It was one of the reasons he'd declined tonight's dinner, he didn't want to get in the way. No, John certainly didn't need him anymore.

"Thanks." she said quietly, drawing him out from his thoughts. "I think I needed to hear that."

John came back in at that moment, looking from Sherlock to Harriet. "Ready to go? Taxi's waiting outside." he said to his sister. She nodded and got up, moving towards the doorway where he stood. Without a word, she suddenly wrapped her arms around his waist, holding on to him tight. John looked surprised and held his arms away for a few moments, caught off guard. Tentatively, he patted her back, leaning away to try and get a look at her face, which she had hidden in the crook of his neck.

Abruptly, she let go and was out of the door a second later, heading out of the flat. John turned to Sherlock with a frown on his face.

"What did you say to her?" he asked cautiously.

"Nothing." Sherlock said innocently, eyebrows raised as if daring John to challenge him. John shook his head and smiled.

"Alright, fine. I won't pry. Now come on, we need to get going." He gestured to the doorway.

It was Sherlock's turn to be caught off guard. He stood and looked about the room, indulging the possibility that maybe he'd overlooked someone. When no one presented themselves, he turned back to John who was obviously wishing Sherlock would hurry up.

"What are you talking about?" Sherlock asked dumbly. "I'm not going."

"Yes you are." John said defiantly. "Mrs Hudson just called me to say that the heating's broken in 221B. I know you're too lazy to buy more logs for the fire so you're coming with us. You can stay here until they fix the boiler. I won't have you freezing to death in your own home."

Sherlock flailed a bit more, clearly taken aback by the new information. John bit back a smile.

"Come on, we're going to be late. We can talk about that case you were trying to tell me about yesterday. I can put it on the blog tomorrow or something."

"I – I don't have any money on me." Sherlock admitted, surprised when he felt disappointment now that he knew he wouldn't be able to go. He had thought John didn't care about the cases he went on without the doctor. Now that it turned out he did, Sherlock hated the fact that they weren't going to get to talk about it. And he still wasn't all that keen on staying in this flat alone for a few hours, even though he was touched at being offered the chance to stay there.

"Don't fret about it, I'll pay for yours. Hurry up!" John pressed, moving forward and grabbing Sherlock's arm, dragging him downstairs and shoving him into the taxi, squishing the detective between himself and Mary. Mary smiled at him and patted his knee as John got in and told the cabbie where to go, and opposite him Harry nudged his foot. He met her eyes, and he was able to read what she was trying to communicate. His earlier words came back to him, and he couldn't help but smile a little.

_You are loved._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cheesy, I know, but I couldn't help it.


	4. Sherlock and John

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock finds John in the last place he expected the doctor would want to be, only John isn't sober enough to notice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set after John's failed wedding at the beginning of DLF

Sherlock awoke with a start when he heard his phone go off. His head shot up from where it had been resting on his folded arms and he blearily looked about the kitchen table for his mobile. Finally locating it, he squinted in the darkness at the bright screen, only to sigh in frustration when the words _low battery_ flashed at him. He threw it aside and scrubbed wearily at his eyes, waking himself up. His phone had said it was two in the morning, yet he knew he would be unable to get back to sleep. Not that he had been intent on sleeping in the first place.

With a yawn he got up from the table and made his way across the flat and up the stairs towards John's bedroom. Ever since he'd taken the doctor home from the reception hall after the failed wedding, he had been checking in on John every night, just to make sure everything was alright. Occasionally he'd had to wake his friend from a vivid nightmare; the dreams had returned now that he was falling into a depression. So Sherlock made sure John got as good a night's sleep as he could possibly get.

Quietly pushing open the door, Sherlock peered into the pitch black room, letting the light from the landing creep in and fall upon the bed.

The empty bed.

Frowning, Sherlock walked over and stared dumbly at the rumpled duvet and dented pillow, wondering where on earth it's inhabitant was.

"John?" he called, entertaining the possibility that the doctor was still here in the room but the detective had failed to spot him. Quickly rushing back to the door, Sherlock flicked on the light and gazed back across the room. Nope, John was not here. Sherlock headed back downstairs and stood in the middle of the living room, cursing himself for falling asleep.

"John?" he all but shouted, waltzing from room to room, throwing open doors and switching on all the lights in the flat. He was fully awake now, the last dregs of tiredness vanishing as he hastened about 221B, repeatedly yelling John's name. Where the hell was he? The only solution Sherlock could think of was that John had left the flat and gone elsewhere. If that was the case, then the doctor could be anywhere by now. Sherlock didn't know for how long John had been gone and as far as he knew, his friend had left no note.

"God's sake, John." Sherlock muttered, retrieving his phone from the table and calling Lestrade. He waited for a few moments, and eventually the DI answered.

"I swear to God, Sherlock, there had better be a damn good reason as to why you're calling at this hour." Greg growled. Sherlock ignored him.

"Is John with you?" he asked.

"What?" Greg responded, the surprise evident in his voice.

"I asked if John was with you. Evidently not. Goodnight."

"No, wait Sherlock! You can't just ask something like that and not expect me to question you. What's going on?"

"John isn't here." Sherlock responded. "He's left."

"With no note?"

Sherlock sighed and didn't deign to answer.

"Right, stupid question. Listen Sherlock, I wouldn't get too worried. He's probably just gone for a walk or something."

"At this time of the night?" Sherlock asked with a frown as he moved towards the door and began to pull on his coat and scarf.

"Yeah, he used to do it all the time when you – well, never mind. All I'm saying is he'll probably be back in no time. He's having a hard time, and some fresh air will probably do him some good."

"He may be having a hard time, but what's to say that means he won't do something stupid?" Sherlock argued.

He heard Greg sigh on the phone. "Alright, fine. Well, if he calls I'll tell you, okay?"

"Okay." the detective answered, going to hang up.

"Call me when you find him, yeah?" Greg asked.

"Yes, I will. Goodnight." Sherlock hung up and stuffed his phone in his coat pocket, walking out the door and down the stairs. Once out on the pavement, Sherlock contemplated the possibility of being able to catch a cab at this hour. As he began to walk towards the main street, he felt his phone buzz in his pocket. Quickly withdrawing it lest John was texting, he sighed and rolled his eyes when he saw Mycroft's name appear. He opened the message, wondering why everyone was up at this time. Although to be fair, he had woken Lestrade.

 _At his flat – MH_ , was what the message said, and with a resolute nod Sherlock eventually managed to flag down a taxi and direct it towards Kensington, pondering the reasons John might have returned there. The doctor must have known it would do more bad than good, but then again Sherlock wasn't really up to scratch on how people behave when they were struggling to cope. He hoped he wouldn't find John in too bad a state.

Half an hour later and the cab pulled up outside John's flat. Bounding out of the taxi and only just remembering to pay the driver, Sherlock walked up the few steps and knocked loudly on the door. When no one answered after a second knock and a minute of waiting, Sherlock tried the door handle and was surprised to find it open.

Quietly he crept inside and headed upstairs, mindful of the creaky steps. He wasn't sure what to expect; the open door could mean anything. He very much hoped an intruder had not gotten in.

The door to the living room and kitchen was shut, and Sherlock moved closer to it, trying to hear any noises. There was no sound whatsoever, and the detective considered the possibility that John was upstairs in his old bedroom. He made a quick trip up and found the bed empty, the sheets neatly folded and obviously not slept in.

Coming back down, Sherlock pushed open the sitting room door and took a few steps in, his eyes adjusting to the dim lighting. His gaze eventually fell upon John, who was curled on the sofa, fast asleep and clutching one of Mary's cardigans. The doctor had a faint frown on his face, as if his subconscious was aware of the fact that the owner of the cardigan wasn't actually sleeping next to him. His knees were tucked up to his chest, obviously seeking warmth against the worryingly cold room. John obviously hadn't been aware enough to notice the drop in temperature when he'd arrived however long ago.

It nearly broke Sherlock's non-existent heart to see his friend like this, resorted to coming back to the place that would undoubtedly hurt him in order to find solace in Mary's belongings. He almost didn't want to wake him, but he knew that John wouldn't be happy waking up in the morning here.

He stepped forward and placed a hand on the doctor's shoulder. "John." he called, shaking him slightly. John frowned and buried himself further into the couch, away from Sherlock.

"Wake up, John. Come on." he said in a hushed tone and John's eyes opened blearily.

"Sh'lock?" he slurred, blinking up at the detective, rubbing his eyes. "Wasgoinon?"

"We're going home, John, come on." He tugged at John's arm, coaxing him off of the sofa. John staggered a bit and looked around the room.

"Where's Mary?" he asked, obviously still confused.

"She's not here, John. Come back to Baker Street, you look tired."

John frowned, resisting Sherlock's tugging. "I'll jus' sleep here, don' worry." he said, edging back to the sofa.

"No, come with me, please." he said, and John took a heavy step forward.

"Where's Mary?" he asked again. Sherlock frowned.

"Have you been drinking?" he questioned, his eyes flicking over to the kitchen and landing upon the empty whiskey bottle. Now that he was aware, he also noticed the faint smell of alcohol and internally he sighed.

John continued to look about the flat as Sherlock led him to the door. "I was gunna wait for her here." he said with his brows furrowed. "She should be here soon."

"I'm sorry John, she won't be coming tonight. We can see if she's here tomorrow, yes?"

"I–I s'pose." John relented, looking defeated. Sherlock didn't say anything; instead he made sure John didn't trip on the stairs and left him near the front door as he flagged down another cab. He opened the door and turned back to John, who was swaying on the spot slightly and gazing up at his house. Sherlock called his name and the doctor jumped, looking back at the detective and then to the taxi. Without saying anything, he stumbled forward and sat heavily in the vehicle. Sherlock shut the door and made his way around to the other side, getting in and asking to be taken to Baker Street.

The ride passed in silence, John leaning his head against the window whilst Sherlock shot him furtive glances every so often.

"M'sorry." John muttered later on as they arrived in 221B. Sherlock paused in the act of removing his coat and glanced at John, who was looking down at his feet with an almost ashamed expression.

"What for?" Sherlock asked, hanging his coat and scarf up and turning to face John.

"For... for gettin' drunk." he stuttered, obviously finding it difficult to form the words. "M'tryin' not to annoy you with being here." he continued, oblivious to Sherlock's shocked stare. "I don' mean to be so – so desp'rate. I don' wanna be a burdenen." he added the extra 'en' without realising, and it only seemed to add to his pitiful form.

"You're not a burden, John." Sherlock said gently. "I want to help you, I want to help you cope. You shouldn't have to do it alone."

"You shun' have to help." John replied. "S'not fair on you."

"John, I think you should go to bed." Sherlock said, trying to avert the conversation. He had no idea John had felt like he was intruding; he'd thought he'd been as welcoming to John as he possibly could have been. So why did John feel like he was burdening Sherlock? For crying out loud, it wasn't as if it was John's fault that Mary was gone. Well, it could be but it seemed unlikely what with the way John had been mourning her missing presence. He was either a far better actor than Sherlock had thought him, or he desperately wished for his fiancée to return.

"Right, yeah, I will." John said. "Sorry." he added, before turning to the stairs and walking up to his room, not giving Sherlock a chance to tell him not to apologise.

He sighed heavily and sank down onto the couch. He fired a quick text to Lestrade, telling him John had been found, before listening to the footsteps above him. He heard the faint creak of the bed as the doctor lay down, and no more sounds emerged from then on.

He waited twenty minutes before stealing upstairs and poking his head around the door. John was sprawled across the bed, still fully clothed and face pressed into the pillow. He lay atop the duvet and his hands dangled off each side. Sherlock moved forward and gently wrangled the duvet out from the slumbering doctor, laying it over him. He then removed his shoes and placed them at the bottom of the bed.

Taking a few steps back, he took a few moments to observe John. He still looked sad and weary even in his sleep, and Sherlock wished there was something he could do to relieve John of his grief. As he trudged down the stairs and went into his own room, he prayed for John's sake that Mary would be found soon.


	5. Greg and Mycroft

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An unexpected visitor turns up at Greg's crime scene.

"Freak's here. Now coming in." Donovan's bored tone crackled on the radio, and Lestrade nodded to himself, deciding not to answer. He stood by the door and crossed his arms, his eyes running over the large library before coming to rest on the body of a man sprawled on his back in the centre of the room. His throat had been cut, so cause of death was obvious. What wasn't so obvious was the fact that the room had been locked from the inside with all doors and windows shut.

He had been reluctant to call Sherlock, knowing that the consulting detective was going through a hard time right now. He'd seen first-hand how affected he'd been by his brother's death, and as much as he wanted to leave Sherlock to grieve, he really did need help. Maybe this was something Sherlock needed, anyhow. That and it would probably be a chance for John to have a break from making sure he was alright and not about to off himself at any time.

The man himself waltzed in a few moments later, his long coat billowing behind him. He ignored everyone in the room and breezed straight over to the dead man several feet away. John followed a couple of minutes after, looking tired but giving Greg a small smile. The DI raised his eyebrows in question but John just shook his head.

"John, come here." Sherlock commanded, and the doctor strode over to crouch next to his friend. From where he was stood Greg couldn't make out what they were saying but he decided not to worry too much; Sherlock would hopefully relay it to him in a moment and if not John would send him a text. He watched the two work next to each other; one of them gesturing to the body whilst the other would not in agreement or shake his head and then point at a different part of the man or somewhere in the library.

And from here, Sherlock didn't seem all that grief-stricken. It wasn't like Greg was expecting him to be constantly pulling out tissues and dabbing at his eyes, but what would have been more likely was some form of depression, like a cold silence or sullen answers. Instead, he was acting as he would at any other crime scene; with an air of arrogance and irritation at everyone else's stupidity. Yes, it was better than Greg had hoped, but the detective seemed to be behaving as if he hadn't lost his brother at all.

His answer entered ten minutes later with an umbrella swinging at his side and a brief case in his hand. By then Sherlock had finished examining the body and was rapidly telling Greg everything he needed to know, whilst the DI scribbled furiously on a notepad. John was still by the dead man, looking down at the bloke with regret. When he heard the new pair of footsteps enter, Greg glanced up and his jaw dropped when his gaze fell upon Mycroft.

He then proceeded to punch the smirking sod in the face.

"You son of a bitch." Greg growled down at Mycroft, who was on the floor and holding his jaw, watching the DI with an expression which seemed to say he knew this was going to happen. This only served to infuriate Greg more.

"I don't know if this faking deaths thing is a family trait or what, but you have no right whatsoever to prance onto my crime scene without warning. No right _whatsoever_."

"Inspector–" Mycroft began, but Greg shook his head, cutting him off.

"No, shut up you arrogant git. Do you have _any idea_ what you did? To us? To _Sherlock_?"

"Lestrade." Sherlock barked sharply, ignoring the curious look from Donovan. Greg ignored the plea to stop talking and continued to glower at the government official.

"I swear to God if this was some kind of way to get back at your brother, then you are one hell of a selfish bas–"

"Greg." John appeared in front of him, his hands on the DI's arms and gently guiding him away from Mycroft, giving him a chance to get up. "It wasn't a joke or anything of the sort. It was completely necessary."

And then everything clicked into place. "You knew?" he asked. When John didn't answer, he laughed. "Of course you bloody did. Did Sherlock know?" Again, he was met by silence, and he shook his head. "No, he didn't."

He glanced back at Sherlock, who was watching the two with a wary eye, as if he was expecting Greg to attack John. Greg pursed his lips. Not today.

He lowered his voice so only John would hear, turning it into a growl. "Jesus Christ, John, you were in his shoes once, and then you go and decide it would be perfectly fine for you to help his _brother_ do it just when everything's gotten more or less back to normal? That's completely unacceptable. God, I can't _believe_ you two did this." he exclaimed in a louder voice, and John took a step back, utterly silent.

Greg turned to Sherlock. "When did you find out?" he asked, because it would have been especially cruel for his brother to show up for the first time at a crime scene of all places. He granted Mycroft that much.

"Two days ago." Sherlock answered.

Greg faced John and Mycroft, who was now stood next to the doctor. "So you two kept him in the dark for a _week_ before telling the truth?"

"It had to be done, Greg." John said softly.

"No, it didn't. I'm sure there would have been another way, you just chose not to look for one. Can you honestly stand there and tell me you thought of _every single_ possibility, regarding this bloody bomb?"

John clearly wanted to argue but he didn't say anything, which was probably the wisest thing to do. He knew Greg needed to vent and let what he was thinking out, and it was better to do it now in one go than over the space of, say a week and make every crime scene visit tense.

"That's what I thought." Greg said lowly. "Now get off my crime scene, you two, I don't want you here."

At this Sherlock protested. "You can't punish John for something he didn't particularly want to do Lestrade–"

"But he did do it Sherlock! That's my point. They both went behind your back and made you think Mycroft was dead, for God's sake."

Nobody said anything. Every officer that had previously been in the room had left at one point, even Donovan, who would have been dying to know the gossip but obviously knew it was the wrong time. It was just the four of them in the library, all looking solemn and unsure of where to go next.

The DI sighed and scrubbed a hand over his face. "I know I haven't heard all the facts." he said. "I know there is most likely a reasonable explanation. But I don't want to hear it right now, I'm too angry and I'll probably end up saying something I'll regret. So please, John, Mycroft, leave."

Mycroft exited without a word, though John lingered with the intent of saying something. But when Greg shot him a fiery look, he too left.

And Greg was not surprised to see Sherlock brush past him and out the door seconds later.

* * *

It had just gone eleven in the evening on the same day when Greg heard someone knock on his door. He looked up from his work on the desk and stood up to cross his office to answer it. He was the only officer left at Scotland Yard – having been determined to break this case quickly so he could focus on other matters – and the sound of the cleaners vacuuming in the corridors was the only sound. He wondered who could be wanting to see him at this hour.

One of the cleaners was stood outside, holding two case files. When Greg asked him what the matter was, the bloke offered the files.

"These were downstairs in the lobby." he answered gruffly. "Had your name on 'em so I brought 'em back. Didn't suppose you'd want 'em thrown in the trash."

Greg took the proffered files, and with a thank-you, shut the door and sank down at his desk, frowning down at the two items. Both had his name stamped on them, and warily, he opened the first one, setting it on the desk.

In a nutshell, it provided Greg with the culprit to this morning's murder. All the evidence was there, motive explained and the way the murder was carried out was also clarified. Everything made perfect sense, and all he needed to do was give the word and they'd have the suspect in jail within the hour.

But he was cautious to trust it. Actually, he trusted this informer more than others who had convinced themselves they'd known who committed the crime. Others added their names so that they'd be given some praise. Because that's what they really wanted; a few minutes on TV where they could boast and make Scotland Yard look bad. This case file, however, had no name – besides those involved in the murder – printed anywhere, as far as he could see. So yes, this informer appeared to be reluctant to put him or herself in the spotlight, but that didn't mean Greg should take this at face value.

Closing the file and pushing it aside, he lay down the next manila envelope and opened it.

He spent five minutes reading the information there before he calmly closed the file, walked to the bathroom and threw up.

When he returned to the office, someone was sitting in the chair in front of the desk, his back to the door. Greg jumped, but when he saw who it was he sat back down and gave Mycroft and long and hard look.

He gestured to the file. "This is everything that happened, then?" he asked.

"Yes." Mycroft answered.

"So John found the bomb plans with your name on them, told you, and he spent the night working out a way to keep you from getting blown to pieces."

"Precisely."

"And you spent the week away making sure Milverton had nobody left who could come after Sherlock." he said tiredly, putting his head in his hands. "But did you really have to be so graphic about the way your fake body was cut up and scattered so that when I later had to search the site I would definitely find pieces of you?" he asked, looking up.

"It was necessary." Mycroft answered.

"What happened?" Greg asked.

A faint frown formed as Mycroft nodded at the file. "It's all there."

"I don't want to hear it from pieces of paper, I want to hear it from one of the victims." Greg said. "Talk to me, Mycroft."

The elder Holmes sighed. "As you said, John discovered the plans for a bomb Milverton had drafted, along with the connection to me. After you and I dropped them both off at 221B the night they broke into the offices, and you returned to your home, I visited John again after he told me he needed to urgently speak with me.

"Once there, he told me what he'd found, and he explained how it was unlikely the bomb would have a wire or something similar that could prevent it from going off. Instead, he promised to revise the plans and he would message me when he found a way to keep us all alive.

"He eventually found a way to delay the explosion once the wire triggers about my legs were broken, and then I was able to get out of the building just as if exploded.

"I survived the explosion, as you now know, and I chose to wait for a week before revealing myself to Sherlock. I had to be sure that nobody was left and he was safe. John protested against it, of course; he argued that Sherlock was suffering too much for me to wait a week, but I could not afford that luxury. So John promised to look after my brother for the week, and I hear it did cost him when he held Sherlock back at the car park. Apparently Sherlock received John's way of keeping him alive without the thanks he deserved."

Greg sighed. "And I was a complete arse to him today." he said, feeling like the villain in this story.

Mycroft shrugged. "He said he understood where your anger was coming from."

"Yeah well he would say that, wouldn't he? Self-deprecating idiot." he muttered.

Neither of them spoke for a moment, each remembering the costly event, costly to all parties involved.

"Sorry about your jaw." Greg said, nodding at the bruise forming on Mycroft's face.

"It will heal in due time."

"...I'm still angry, you know."

"Understandable."

"Not so much at John now. Mainly you."

"I see."

"But I suppose there really was no other way to go about it, not in the limited time you had."

"No."

Greg sighed again. "How did Sherlock take it?" he asked after a while.

Mycroft considered. "As I thought he would. Silence at first, then anger, then reluctant acceptance." A soft smile graced his features.

"You really hurt him, you know. He went to pieces after your death."

"I know." The smile vanished.

"I mean, he didn't show it, but we could all see he was struggling to cope."

"As I've heard repeatedly from John."

"Sorry, that probably wasn't very helpful." Greg admitted.

Mycroft exhaled. "I know Sherlock didn't take things very well, but there really was nothing I could do."

The DI nodded his agreement, and his eyes fell to his desk. He frowned slightly. "You solved the murder?" he asked, gesturing to the other case file.

"Sherlock did, actually. I agreed to drop it off when I came by here."

"I'll pop by Baker Street during the week." Greg said, nodding to himself. "Buy John a well-deserved pint." he added with a guilty expression.

Mycroft got to his feet, buttoning his jacket. "I'm sure he'd appreciate it." he said.

Greg too rose and stuck out his hand. "Good to have you back, Mycroft."

The government official took his hand and they shook, Mycroft smiling slightly. "Good to be back, Inspector. Don't remain here too long. Night." And with that he left, the air of mystery seemingly leaving with him.


	6. Sherlock and John II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is getting ready for his honeymoon and Sherlock doesn't seem to realise he's busy at the moment

Sherlock pounded his fist upon the door to John's flat and stood back to wait impatiently, his foot tapping on the step. He'd had this sudden need to tell John about the crime he'd just solved – because, really, it had been marvellous – and was wishing the doctor would hurry up.

Eventually the door opened and Mary appeared, looking tired. She frowned down at Sherlock.

"Sherlock?" she asked. "What are you doing here?"

He pushed past her and began to trot up the stairs. "I need to speak to John." he said.

"We're kind of busy at the moment." Mary replied as she followed him.

"He needs to hear it."

"Does he, though?" she murmured to herself, shaking her head. Sherlock had been popping round every other day to tell John this and that; even if it was only trifle, like the fact that Mrs Hudson had apparently met someone and Sherlock had determined that John needed to know straight away.

Sherlock worked out that John was in the bedroom and he hurried in, pausing at the doorway. John had a suitcase on the bed and was in the middle of packing it. When Sherlock came in, he looked up.

"Sherlock? You alright?"

Sherlock frowned at the sight before him. "Are you going somewhere?" he asked. The unwanted thought that perhaps John was moving away crossed his mind, and he fervently hoped it wasn't true.

"Yes, Mary and I are going on our honeymoon. I told you yesterday. You obviously weren't listening." John answered exasperatedly, and Sherlock breathed an internal sigh of relief.

"Right, well, anyway this case I've just solved, it involved the decapitation of a pig, and at first the meaning was unclear, but as more information was gathered I was able to work out..."

As Sherlock spoke, John sighed and continued to pack his clothes, nodding and making agreeable noises whenever Sherlock expected it. He knew it was pointless to tell the detective that now really was a bad time, so he let Sherlock perch on the bed and tell him about the case.

"... After I received the note covered in mustard powder it was clear that..."

Mary came into the room at that point with folded clothes that wouldn't fit in her suitcase and placed them in John's. Sherlock didn't pay the slightest attention to her; keeping his eyes on John and ensuring he was hearing what he was saying. Mary gave John a cup of tea and the doctor smiled in response as he closed and zipped up the suitcase. When Mary asked Sherlock if he wanted a drink she was ignored, and she left the room with a roll of her eyes.

"... Lestrade, of course, was completely ignorant but he soon saw..."

John took a sip of his tea and sat on the bed, deciding they could wait ten minutes before having to leave for the airport. He listened to Sherlock prattle on and he asked the right questions at the right time, but other than that he didn't speak.

When twenty minutes passed and Sherlock still hadn't finished talking, John raised his hand and interrupted.

"Sherlock, this case sounds riveting but Mary and I really do have to get going. You can tell me all about when I get back, I promise."

"I'll carry your suitcase to the taxi." Sherlock announced, changing the topic suddenly. John raised his eyebrows but shrugged.

"Okay, cheers." he said, getting up and going downstairs into the kitchen, where he placed his empty mug and met Mary at the door with her own suitcase. Sherlock followed moments later and the three walked outside. Even on the short trip downstairs, Sherlock added bits about the case.

John opened the boot of the cab and took the suitcases off Mary and Sherlock, who it seemed hadn't yet paused for breath. John glanced over at Mary, and when she offered him a reluctant nod, he sighed and moved to open the cab door. Mary climbed in and a moment later, so did Sherlock.

The cab ride was not passed in silence, surprisingly enough. John and Mary both stared out of their respective windows whilst Sherlock stared at the back of John's head and talked at him.

"... And that was something even Anderson should have spotted..."

"... We found her in an old chicken factory in _Bungay_ , of all places."

John cut in then. "You went to Suffolk for this case?" he asked, incredulous.

"Yes, of course, weren't you listening? I said that she was originally from Lancaster, but she was brought up in Suffolk..."

An hour later and they arrived at Heathrow Airport, John and Mary both grateful that the journey had ended. They leapt out and payed the cabbie before retrieving their suitcases. They walked into the airport with Sherlock close behind, matching their fast pace.

"I'm going to go and get tickets." Mary said, and rushed off before John could insist he did it. The doctor couldn't help but smile as Sherlock crowded his space and carried on talking, and when Mary came back with the tickets a few minutes later, the trio set off for the right terminal.

Having arrived fairly early to ensure they did not miss their flight, John and Mary had about an hour before they'd have to board. They sat on some of the many plastic chairs in the waiting area; John in the middle with Mary on his right and Sherlock on his left, who _had not stopped talking_. Mary had rested her head on John's shoulder and was dropping off to Sherlock's dulcet tone, but every time John showed sign of napping, the detective would nudge him to keep his attention.

"... After the blue welly boot was found, we proceeded to the fire station only to find..."

John was pleased that Sherlock did not exclude him from cases, that whenever he couldn't come along the detective would happily fill him in on what had happened but really, there was only so much John could take without feeling tired and weary. He didn't know how Sherlock had the energy to talk nonstop, he really didn't. He wouldn't be surprised if Sherlock remained in his thirties forever whilst everyone else grew old, bouncing around and making everybody feel ten times their age. He had that effect on John, that was for sure.

So caught up in his story was he, that Sherlock didn't notice John leaning his head atop Mary's. Moments later the doctor dozed off, leaving Sherlock talking to himself.

* * *

"Flight 203 is ready for boarding. Please have your passes ready."

The overhead announcer startled John out of his nap, and blearily he looked around, realising that something was different. Oh, that was it, Sherlock had stopped talking.

The detective sat slumped in his chair with his arms crossed, a pout on his face as he glared straight ahead. John groaned internally and nudged Mary awake. She jerked and lifted her head and when John told her to go and board the plane without him, she hesitated for a moment before taking a look at Sherlock and then nodding understandingly.

When she was gone, John glanced across at his friend. He sighed before speaking. "I'm sorry." he said.

"You fell asleep." Sherlock accused, not looking at the doctor.

"Yeah," John rubbed the back of his neck. "I didn't mean to."

"If you wanted me to stop talking, you should have said so."

John was about to protest that he had asked him, but now that he thought about it, he realised that he'd never directly told Sherlock to be quiet. It had just been excuses like, "we're going to be late," or "we're now going." He must have hoped that Sherlock would have picked up on the cues, but clearly the detective hadn't, and John probably should have known that.

"Today just wasn't the best day for it, that's all." John said.

"Were you even listening?" Sherlock said grumpily.

"Of course I was. It was a case about a woman who stole a diamond and put it in a frozen turkey or something."

"Goose. Not that it matters." Sherlock muttered, and John sighed.

"I like hearing about your cases, Sherlock, I really do." he said. "I like that you choose to fill me in on what has happened so that I can blog about it or just listen purely to satisfy my curiosity. I like that you come to my flat at _all hours_ to rant about Anderson or Mycroft. I like that you'll tell me gossip, even though you hate it but you know I find these things interesting. Don't think I put up with you because I feel I have to. You're my best mate, you should know that."

"I do know that." Sherlock mumbled, looking down at his lap. John grinned.

"Good." he said and bumped Sherlock's arm, eliciting a small smile from the detective.

"Okay, I really do have to go and get on that plane. We're going to–"

"Italy, yes, you told me yesterday." Sherlock interrupted, and John smiled.

"Yeah. So... see you next week?" he asked and the detective nodded.

John squeezed his shoulder as he got up. "I'll try and pop round the flat when we get back and you can carry on telling me about this complex case then."

"Bye." Sherlock said, pulling out his phone and John smiled again before walking off.

When he sat down on the plane next to Mary, she raised her eyebrows.

"He's fine." he answered, and she smiled in relief. John released a breath of air and rubbed a hand over his face. He let out a chuckle a moment later.

"What?" Mary asked.

He shook his head. "Nothing. It's just that... God, for a minute I thought he was going to get on the plane with us." he said, and they both descended into giggles.


	7. Greg and John

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg buys John a pint and they chat.

"It wasn't nice, what you did." Was Greg's opening line when he spotted John.

The doctor huffed a laugh as he sat down on the barstool next to him. "No, it wasn't." he agreed.

"But..." Greg sighed, taking a sip of his pint. "I can see why you both did it."

"Well that's good." John said as he motioned to the bartender for a drink.

"You know everything then?" he continued when the glass arrived.

"Yeah. Mycroft visited me the other day. Gave me a right fright, sneaking into my office in the middle of the night."

"He would do that, though, wouldn't he?" John said, and Greg smiled, glad that the doctor wasn't being hostile with him. The DI would not have blamed him if he had, he certainly felt as if he deserved it.

He looked down into his drink and cleared his throat. "I shouldn't have been so short with you, John, it wasn't fair."

John opened his mouth to say something, but Greg held up his hand. "Just let me finish." he said, and the doctor nodded to show he was listening.

"Mycroft told me how you didn't want to keep Sherlock in the dark. And really, I know you'd never submit willingly if you knew Sherlock would suffer in the long term. So yeah, I should have waited for an explanation before casting judgement."

"Don't worry about it, mate." John said gently. "It's understandable, anyhow. I can see how Mycroft reappearing at that crime scene and then finding out I was involved would look to you."

"A crime scene wasn't the best place for him to pop up." Greg said, shaking his head.

"No. And I told him off for that, don't worry." John said, and the DI chuckled.

"His jaw wasn't too bad, was it?" he asked, trying to sound concerned but he was still smiling.

"A bit of ice and it was fine."

"Perhaps I shouldn't have hit him."

"Nonsense, someone had to do it. Mrs Hudson slapped him when she found out." John said with a grin.

"She didn't."

"She did."

"Oh God would I have loved to have seen that." Greg chuckled.

"Mmm, the whole thing was very undignified." John said absentmindedly, clearly recalling the scene.

"You were there?"

"Yeah, it was just after Sherlock... left." he said with a cough, clearly wishing he hadn't let that slip.

"Left?" Greg echoed, frowning.

"Uh, yeah. He walked out when he saw Mycroft for the first time."

"I wouldn't have thought he'd do that." Greg said. "Surely shouting would have been involved?"

"No, he - he only left because he found out that I had known all along." John mumbled.

"Ah." Greg realised.

"Yeah."

"Didn't take that too well, then?"

"You could say that, yes." John said, but he shrugged. "Can see where he was coming from. It's not easy, I can tell you."

"And you know all too well." Greg agreed. "But still, don't tell me you were completely understanding."

"I understood, Greg, but that's not to say I was pleased about it." John said. "I knew I'd just have to wait for Sherlock to come to me, which he did only a few hours later admittedly, so it wasn't too bad."

"But he'd been giving you the cold shoulder a week before that." the DI argued.

"Well, yeah, but that was for a completely different reason. That I _definitely_ could understand."

"You mean when you got him out of that car park?" Greg asked.

"Yes."

"I never knew that was the reason." Greg muttered, and they both took a sip of their drinks.

"Understandable, like I said." John continued.

"Though still frustrating."

"Still frustrating, that's true." the doctor nodded. "But he had thought he'd lost his brother and I didn't exactly allow time for goodbyes, to be fair."

"Yes, but you knew there was no need for goodbyes."

"He didn't, though." John countered. "And that's why I tried to get Mycroft to come back as soon as possible. Sherlock never got any closure, he was suffering."

"You didn't get any closure." Greg said before he realised, and John closed his eyes.

"That was different." he said quietly.

"How was it?" Greg implored. "Sherlock faked his death to save us and Mycroft faked his death to save Sherlock. That bloody git barely gave you a chance to say anything before he jumped. How is it different?" he asked fiercely.

"Don't, Greg." John said, and Greg released a breath.

"Sorry." he muttered. "Sorry, I didn't mean to say that."

"It's fine."

"Stop saying everything's fine!" he shouted, banging his hand on the bar. John jumped, and people around them looked at the DI with surprise. Greg ignored them.

"Will you _please_ stop saying that you understand, that all can be forgiven? It's not as easy as that. You and Sherlock suffered, and you shouldn't have to brush that under the carpet and assure us that everything's peachy, because it's not!"

He had no idea where that came from, he really didn't, but John was so selfless sometimes that it was infuriating, and Greg's short temper decided to take it out on the man that felt as if he deserved it.

" _You_ should be shouting." he said, though his voice was still raised. "You should be ranting that it wasn't fair; it wasn't fair on Sherlock, on me, on Mycroft, on _you._ Stop _sitting there_ and tell me what's going on in that bloody head of yours."

John was looking down, utterly silent. When Greg paused for breath, he spoke.

"Are you talking about Mycroft's death or Sherlock's?" he asked quietly.

All the air deserted Greg and left him reeling. Well, now he felt bad. Because _of course_ John had bottled everything up when Sherlock returned. Yes, anger had been shown, but apparently not everything had been discussed. Because wasn't that just like John, to remain calm and fade into the background whilst everybody flitted over Sherlock, the returned hero. Oh, he wasn't having a dig at Sherlock. No, he had been pleased to have the overzealous detective come back, and he was sure John had been just as happy. But that wasn't to say John was always going to be a-ok with it, and he'd probably never had a chance to say so, not with everything that had happened with Moran after.

"It depends." he said eventually. "What did you think I was talking about?"

John shrugged. "I don't know." he said, and Greg sighed, knowing he wasn't going to get an answer out of the man next to him.

"Well maybe you need to speak to Sherlock, not me." he said softly.

"It was ages ago, he'd think I was still holding a grudge or something when I'm not."

"Then you can tell him he doesn't have the right to think that. He was the one who left you, after all. Yes I know it was for a good cause, but that doesn't take the sting out of it much. And if you can't say that then I'll come round and say it for you."

John smiled and raised his glass to his lips. "There'd be a full-on shouting match if that happened. I'd have to hide in Mrs Hudson's flat."

"As if you'd ever shy away from a fight." Greg said.

"Sherlock wouldn't relent until he won."

"All the more reason to have you upstairs and not down, so you can back me up."

The doctor chuckled and Greg grinned. The two sat in retrospective silence for a while, sipping their beer. John's phone chimed and he pulled it out to read the text.

"Speak of the devil." he muttered, then looked back up at the DI. "Sorry, I've got to go. He's set the kitchen on fire and can't work out how to put it out."

"Of course he has." Greg said. "You're a saint, John, you really are."

John just smiled as he put on his jacket. "Speak to you later?

"Yeah, see you later." Greg answered. "Actually, John," he called, gripping the doctor's arm to prevent him from leaving.

"If you do need to rant or something, you know I'm here, don't you?"

"Don't I always rant to you?" John asked with a half-hearted smile, trying to deflect the question.

"That's not what I meant." Greg said seriously.

"I know." John answered. "And yes, I do know. Cheers."

Greg nodded and let go, watching as John wound his way across the pub. On the way the doctor put his phone to his ear, and Greg heard John say, "I swear to God Sherlock, if the kitchen is still alight when I get back I am taking away your Rubik's Cube," causing the DI to choke on his drink and burst out laughing.


	8. John and Mycroft II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John calls Mycroft round for a very serious conversation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set just after Sherlock and John break into Milverton's offices.

There was a knock at the door and John walked across the living room of 221B to answer it. Mycroft stood in front of him, searching John's face to try and determine why he'd been summoned there. John silently stepped aside and Mycroft walked in, the two of them making sure they were quiet.

"How is he?" Mycroft asked gently.

"Asleep now. He took some painkillers a while ago. I'll wake him up in a couple of hours."

"The injuries weren't too bad?"

John shook his head. "A few bruised ribs and a sore head is the worst of the lot. That and a bruised ego."

Mycroft smirked and perched on the sofa. "You wished to see me? What is so important that it cannot wait until the morning?"

"You'll wish you hadn't asked that in a moment." John murmured without providing an explanation. He walked over to where his and Sherlock's coats were, and after rummaging in his coat pocket he pulled out a folded piece of paper. Wordlessly, he stepped back to Mycroft and held out the paper. The government official took it and did not miss John slipping into the kitchen and switching on the kettle.

Mycroft glanced down at the paper and immediately his mind told him he was reading plans for a bomb. He couldn't help but look back up at John, wondering where he'd found this. The doctor had his back to him, though, so he could not formulate any theories.

There was a large sketch of the bomb in the centre of the page, hand-drawn with intricate details and many labels. The writing was very small, and Mycroft had to squint to read some of it. Whilst glancing over the page, he spied Charlie Milverton's name, and suddenly everything made a lot more sense. Well, as much sense as it could in the circumstances. But now he understood where John had gotten this plan.

"You picked this up when visiting Milverton's offices earlier tonight?" he asked, just to clarify.

John smiled at the use of verb, thinking that he and Sherlock hadn't really _visited_ , more like _broken in_.

"Yeah." he answered, coming into the sitting room with two cups of tea. He handed one to Mycroft and then sat down. "Sherlock doesn't know I found it though." he added. "He doesn't even know there's a bomb."

Mycroft frowned as his eyes continued to review the paper. "What reason do you have for not – ah." he said.

John grimaced. Mycroft must have spied his name. It was going to happen sooner or later, and John hadn't known how he would tell him without letting him see the evidence for himself, so he'd decided not to say anything and let the government official find out for himself.

It seemed cruel now that it had happened.

"Yes, 'ah'." John muttered. "Sorry."

"I'm going to kill him."

Despite the situation being dire, the comment was so un-Mycroft that John couldn't help but bark out a short laugh. Mycroft's eyes rose to look at him with an expression that clearly read oh-dear-god-he's-gone-mad.

"Sorry." John repeated, sobering up. Mycroft gave him one last wary glance before returning to the bomb drawing.

"You said you haven't told him?" Mycroft asked after a few minutes of silence. John nodded.

"Good. He mustn't know."

"What?" John asked sharply, his brows furrowing. "What do you mean?"

"Sherlock can't know that Milverton plans to strap me to this bomb." Mycroft waved the paper in front of him as he spoke, looking at John with determined eyes.

"Mycroft, this man wants to kill you." John leant forward in his chair. "If he succeeds, how am I supposed to tell Sherlock that I'd known what was going to happen all along?"

"Do you really have such little faith, John?" Mycroft asked with a bitter smile. "Milverton will not succeed. I will fake my death."

John stared at Mycroft for a good while, trying not to let his mouth open in shock. "You can't be serious." he said.

"Do I look like I'm joking?"

"I don't know; have you ever told a joke?" John asked, though there was no humour there. "You're not really going to fake your death, are you?"

"Do you have a better plan?"

"We haven't had a chance to think!"

"Perhaps you haven't, but I have, John."

"You've been here five minutes. You're tea's still hot, for Christ's sake."

"Ample time, I assure you."

"No." John deadpanned.

"No?" Mycroft repeated, lifting one eyebrow.

"You can't."

"I can."

"How?"

"With your help." Mycroft said, looking at John expectantly.

"Definitely not."

"Is there a particular reason you're so averse to this idea?"

"Yes, I'm worried we'll miss our lunch date next Tuesday." John said sardonically, getting up and placing his mug in the kitchen, trying his utmost not to slam it in case it woke Sherlock. He was already aware his voice was rising and he told himself not to lose his temper.

"It's the only choice we have, John."

"Not we, Mycroft. You. You want to fake your death, you can do it alone." he ground out, standing in the centre of the room.

Mycroft looked up at him, a faint frown on his face. "Why won't you help? This is for Sherlock's own good. If Milverton believes he has killed me, he will more than likely leave Sherlock alone, thinking he is victorious. What is it about that idea that makes you inclined not to help?"

"I am not _inclined_ because I don't want to see Sherlock go through what I–" He stopped suddenly and clamped his mouth shut, cursing himself for his tendency to speak without realising what he was saying. He didn't need to look at Mycroft to know that the government official knew what he was going to say.

"What you went through when he faked his death." Mycroft finished quietly. John did not reply.

"John, we do not know when Milverton is going to act." he continued in a soft tone. "It could be next week, it could be tomorrow. We don't know. But we have to be prepared for his attack. Milverton has an inclination to act rashly, so he will more than likely act sooner rather than later. In that case, we must be assured we can meet his move." John still was not replying, and Mycroft sighed.

"It is rare that one can predict what their opponent will do." Mycroft said. "But in this instance, we know what he is planning." He gestured to the piece of paper sitting on the sofa next to him. "You've examined it, I'm sure. Is there a way to disable the bomb?"

"I don't think so." John admitted. "But I haven't had a chance to properly study it."

"I have though, and I can tell you that there is no way."

"But who has been trained in dealing with bombs?"

Mycroft pressed his lips together, knowing he could not win that one. John sighed and leant against the arm of his chair.

"I know you have good intentions, Mycroft." he said. "But if you do this, it's going to destroy him." Mycroft made to argue, but John shook his head. "Don't even bother with telling me it won't matter." he said sternly, pointing a finger at the elder Holmes. "Your brother cares for you whether he wants to or not, and if he is under the impression you've died, he'll go to pieces. And I'm sure you know more than anyone how destructive he can be."

Mycroft bowed his head and ran a hand through his hair. "This has to be done, John." he said.

"I disagree."

"What if it were you? If you were to be kidnapped and tied to a bomb. Would you not do anything to protect Sherlock?"

"You don't have to ask me that to know my answer." John said quietly.

"I know I don't. And I hope you would not ask that of me either." he said. "This is something I must do. If we can elude Sherlock, we can elude Milverton, and then we've won."

"And how long do you plan on staying dead?" John asked, really not liking this conversation. It was bringing back too many painful memories.

"Until I am sure Sherlock will not be harmed." Mycroft assured.

"That could take years." John muttered. "It took Sherlock three years when he set out after Moriarty's web. We don't know how many work for Milverton, and if it took you as long as it took Sherlock I don't think he would be able to cope."

"I told him that I did not think you would cope with that long a separation and yet you remained strong. What makes you think Sherlock would not survive?"

"Because he would have more regrets." John said softly. "Yes, I regretted what I last said to him the day he jumped, but I can be certain he has more regrets regarding you than I did regarding him."

"What do you suggest, then?" Mycroft asked, his voice raised but not yet shouting. It was loud enough to make John jump, though, and it also made the doctor realise something.

He closed his eyes. "I'm sorry." he said, changing the subject abruptly.

"What?" Mycroft asked, caught off guard.

"I said I'm sorry." John repeated, looking at the government official with tired eyes. "I forgot about you."

"Forgot about me? What do you mean?" Mycroft asked warily, though he was beginning to think he knew. He hoped he was wrong.

"I forgot what effect this could have on you, too." John said. "It must be difficult."

Mycroft released a huff of breath, berating himself for apparently being so obvious. "It does not matter what I feel." he said harshly, defences coming up. "This is about Sherlock."

"That doesn't make a difference." John countered. Mycroft looked like he was about to argue, and John held up his hands in a placating gesture. "I'm not trying to rile you up, Mycroft, I was just apologising for being inconsiderate." he said, gently.

Mycroft still looked like a cornered animal, unsure whether John had an ulterior motive and debating whether to leave the flat and just take his chances with Milverton. Common sense set in, though, and he calmed slightly.

"No need to apologise." he said stiffly, after a while. "But perhaps we might focus on how I am to fake my death?"

"Of course." John said reluctantly, knowing that despite feeling the way he did, this was going to happen if he liked it or not. And it was not as if he was about to deny the chance to help protect Sherlock.

The two sat there for a couple of hours, debating on how to carry out the stunt. Numerous cups of tea were made, and when John noticed Mycroft looking tired, he decided he could work out practicalities alone and tell Mycroft later.

"Go home, Mycroft. You need rest." he said when the two had lapsed into silence.

"Nonsense, we have not finished yet." Mycroft argued.

"I'll do it myself and relay the information back to you later. You have to be prepared, though, and to do that you need your energy. So go home and get some sleep."

Mycroft rose to his feet and headed towards the door. He paused, however, and turned back to the doctor, who was still sat in his chair.

"Do you really feel that Sherlock will struggle with my absence?" he asked, not meeting the doctor's eyes.

"Most definitely. Three years was only just bearable for me, I don't think Sherlock would make it that long." he said grimly.

Mycroft nodded. "Then I will ensure three weeks is the maximum." he said. John raised his eyebrows at such a short period to get so much done, but he did not argue. He simply nodded and watched as Mycroft left.

It was only a few minutes later that John heard the soft tread of feet, and he turned to see Sherlock stood in the kitchen, rubbing his eyes blearily.

"John?" he asked sleepily. "Who're you talkin' to?" he slurred.

John rose to his feet and grasped Sherlock's elbow, gently steering him back to bed. "Muttering to myself, Sherlock, that's all. Go back to sleep."

The detective clambered back into bed and pulled the duvet around him. "S'weird." he muttered.

"What is?" John asked, picking up Sherlock's blazer off of the floor.

"Thought I heard Mycroft."

John paused for a moment before straightening and turning back to his friend. "No one was here, mate, just us. How's your head?"

"Hurts." Sherlock mumbled, his eyes drifting shut.

"Alright, just go back to sleep and it'll be better in the morning." John said gently, rubbing the detective's arm.

"Than's."

"What for?" John asked.

"Not lettin' Mycroft in." he grumbled. "He'd laugh at m'head."

It was astonishing how childlike Sherlock became when he was tired, and John couldn't help but smile sadly.

"He'd never laugh at you, Sherlock." he said, crouching next to his head and gazing into the drowsy grey eyes that were trying to focus on him. "And anyway, I thought it was your job as younger sibling to laugh at _him_."

Sherlock smiled and yawned. "I do." he said. "But he's borin'. No crea... tivity."

"You'd be surprised," John muttered as Sherlock dropped off, and with a parting pat to his shoulder, he walked into the kitchen to make another tea, prepared for a night of studying.


	9. Mary and Greg

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A tipsy Greg bumps into the bride and barely manages not to embarrass himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set during John and Mary's wedding.

Mary sat down at one of the tables with a small smile on her face, watching the guests dance and mingle. She thanked one of the passing waiters for her drink before continuing her people-watching. Her eyes caught John and Sherlock making their way across the dance floor – Sherlock following her husband with a scowl on his face – and then out of the door. She wasn't too fussed with where they were going; she'd known Sherlock wouldn't be particularly fond of sitting in a room full of people and she had been surprised when he'd said yes after John had re-invited him.

When they left she let her gaze trail across the floor and she met Mycroft's look across the room. He was stood in the corner with a glass of champagne in one hand and a beady eye on everybody else. Again, she wasn't entirely sure why Mycroft had wanted to come – he didn't look like he was wholly enjoying himself – but it was nice to see him again. She smiled and waved at him, and he looked a bit surprised before he gave a tight smile and a stiff nod in return.

"Having fun?" Mary glanced up as Greg slid into the chair next to her, a wide grin plastered on his face. She couldn't help but smile in response.

"Definitely." she said over the music. She didn't have to ask the same of Greg to know the answer: his dancing eyes and lopsided smile were plenty enough of a reply.

"Did you have the salmon?" he asked, and Mary shook her head.

"No, I had the chicken. Was the salmon nice?" she questioned and Greg nodded vigorously.

"It was _delicious_." he said, leaning forward and making sure Mary was listening. She smiled and chuckled.

"You're not drunk are you?" she asked, pretending to sound scandalised. Inside, though, she was grinning at the sight of the DI looking horrified.

"No! No I'm not drunk! I haven't had any drinks!" Mary lifted an eyebrow, and Greg avoided her eyes. "Maybe one or two..."

She grinned outright. "I'm kidding, Greg. I'm glad you're enjoying yourself."

The DI looked a little put out that she had been toying with him, but he couldn't keep the scowl on his face for long. He suddenly looked about the room for a few moments, before glancing back at the woman watching him with an amused expression.

"Where's John?" he asked.

Mary nodded to the door. "He went outside with Sherlock about two minutes ago."

"Ah." Greg answered. "It doesn't bother you?" he asked, looking more serious as he scrutinised Mary.

"What doesn't bother me?" she responded, frowning slightly.

"That John spends a lot of time with Sherlock."

Her frown deepened. "Why should it?" she asked cautiously.

"It shouldn't!" Greg said, voice rising as he hastened to convey that he wasn't having a dig at her. "They're just friends!"

A small smile tugged at the corners of Mary's mouth. "I know." she said reassuringly. "I don't mind that John sees Sherlock a lot. I know he loves me and I also know Sherlock is a big part of his life, so who am I to tell him what to do and what not to do?"

Greg studied her for a short while, trying to tell in his tipsy state if she was bluffing, before a wide grin plastered itself across his face.

"I knew he was going to marry you." he said, and Mary blushed. "I'm serious; his other girlfriends barely put up with Sherlock but you were the only one who even _tried_ to befriend him, and I know that meant a lot to John. Sorry, I probably shouldn't have mentioned his ex-girlfriends on your wedding day. Not very tactful."

"Don't worry about it." she said. "Though I hope it wasn't just because I like Sherlock that John married me."

Greg waved his hand as if to dispel the comment. "There were other reasons, obviously." he amended.

"Obviously." Mary murmured, sipping her drink.

"No, no, no, don't do that." Greg whined, closing his eyes.

Mary frowned. "Do what?"

"That guilt thing. John's a good bloke–"

"I know. What guilt thing?"

"–and he loves you like mad–"

"I know. I wasn't doing a guilt thing."

"–actually, he told me about a month after dating you that he was going to marry you."

"I – did he?" Mary asked, a surprised expression crossing her face.

"Yeah. We met up for a pint and he couldn't stop talking 'bout you." Greg noticed Mary's blush and he smiled. "I asked where he thought your relationship was going and he instantly announced he was going to marry you."

"Really?"

"Mmm. He told anyone who'd listen. Now I think about it, he may have had a few drinks." Mary giggled as Greg continued. "But he kept saying you were the one and going on about how brilliant you were. We couldn't get him to shut up."

Mary smiled as she took a sip of her champagne. "He never said."

"I doubt he'd remember, to be honest. He really was quite smashed by the time I got him back to yours. You were away at the time, so you wouldn't have known."

"I don't think I've ever seen him drunk." Mary mused, trying to recall a time where she would have seen her husband tipsy.

"I've probably got a video on my phone, I'll find it for you later. It can be another wedding present from me."

Mary smiled. "I'd appreciate that video, I think."

Both of them lapsed into a comfortable silence, the sound of music and chattering filling their senses. Mary drank some more of her drink and put it on the table, tracing the lip of the glass with her finger and suddenly remembering she needed to give the pineapple juice in her car to her cousin. Her nephew was going on a school trip on Monday, and Alfie had asked her for some juice so he could pack it for his son. She didn't even know why she had pineapple juice, though something told her John kept it for when Sherlock visited.

Greg was frowning into his own drink, his alcohol-addled mind trying to decide whether to finish it and find another drink, or save it. He settled for downing it in one.

Placing the glass aside, he looked across at Mary. "He sings like a canary."

Mary glanced up. "Who?" she asked. "Alfie?"

"Who?"

Mary shook her head. "Who were you talking about?"

"John." he answered. "When he's drunk he sings. And he hasn't got a bad voice, actually."

Mary gaped at this new information. "I _really_ need to get him tipsy." she said determinedly. "Why haven't I done this before?" Greg smiled and shrugged.

"Beats me. It's bloody hilarious, listening to him holler out the words to 'I Dreamed a Dream.'"

Mary started to laugh and Greg soon joined in, chuckling to himself.

"Why haven't you told Sherlock this?" she asked. "He could have put it in his best man speech."

Greg laughed again. "God, I should have. And Sherlock would have _loved_ it seeing as John's one up on him after that time Irene Adler drugged him. Now _that's_ a video you need to see, Mary."

"I'm sure I will." she said with a smile.

"He loves you, you know."

"Sherlock?"

"John."

Mary nodded. "I know, and you've said so already."

Greg took another glass of champagne from a passing waiter. "It killed him, y'know, when he thought you'd left him."

Mary's smile dropped. "I know." she said quietly.

"I don't think Sherlock knew what to do." the DI continued, oblivious to Mary's discomfort. "John would just stay locked in his room or lie on the sofa. Wouldn't say a word."

"It had to be done, Greg."

"Yeah, but he still worried us all for a bit. It was hard to tell what he was thinking beforehand, but then when you left he just completely shut us all off. It was horrible."

"It was hard for me, too." Mary muttered.

"Yeah, I kno – oh God, I shouldn't have said that. Sorry, that was completely out of line." Greg said quickly, leaning forward. "It wasn't fair on either of you, and I hate to think what it was like for you, especially as you didn't really have anyone."

"I had Jonathan."

"Well at least you weren't alone, then. Sorry. I'm glad it's over and done with, though."

Mary nodded. "I think we all are. Sherlock and Mycroft especially."

Greg hummed in agreement. "Wasn't a nice case."

Mary huffed. "Understatement of the year." she said and the DI grimaced.

"I think that's enough drinks for me." he announced, pushing away the champagne. Mary smiled slightly.

"Nonsense, you're here to have fun. Have as many as you like." she argued, sliding it back.

"Well, if you insist..."

"I do insist, it's my wedding." Mary smirked.

"If it makes you happy... _Are_ you happy?" Greg asked.

"Of course I am. Why wouldn't I be?"

"Just checking." Greg said, sipping his drink. "You and John are perfect together, I hope you know."

"Thank you."

"Great personalities."

"Ta."

"Taste in food isn't that great, though."

"What?" Mary asked, frowning.

" _Why_ didn't you have the salmon?! It was amazing!"

Mary laughed. "The chicken was just as good." she said.

"I seriously doubt that."

"Why are we talking about chickens?" John slid into the seat next to Mary, looking from her to Greg. He placed his arm across the back of Mary's chair and raised his eyebrows at Greg.

"I was telling Mary that the salmon would have been the better choice than the chicken."

John nodded contemplatively. "It was good." he reflected.

" _See!_ "

John and Mary grinned, before she nudged her husband in the side. "Why haven't I heard you sing before?"

John looked thrown. "Why would you want to hear me sing?" he asked with a frown.

"Because Greg says you're good at it."

"When did _Greg_ hear me sing?" he asked, glancing at the DI.

Greg lifted his chin and gave John a regal look. "You'll never know." he said airily, then suddenly darted from his chair and vanished into the crowd.

John stared after him for a few moments before slowly glancing across at Mary. "He didn't expect me to chase him, did he?" he asked. " And anyway, why were you talking about my singing?"

"No reason." Mary said. "Where's Sherlock?"

"He left. Dimmock promised him a triple murder."

"Ah, who could resist?" Mary smiled. John grinned in response.

"Who indeed? I'll pop round tomorrow, if that's alright?"

"It's fine." Mary assured. "Drink?" she offered her champagne glass, wondering whether she'd be able to get John drunk tonight.

John shook his head. "No thanks. Come dance with me?"


	10. Sherlock and John II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Mary return from their honeymoon and all John wants to do is go home and sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last one guys

John and Mary both stepped out of the airport and breathed a collective sigh of relief. It had been hectic getting off the plane and through customs, and the two of them were glad to be past it. They were glad to be home, too. Not that anything on the honeymoon had been bad, but it was always nice to be on home turf.

Mary turned to John. "I've promised Susan I was going to go see her after we landed. Meet you back at the flat?" she asked, and John nodded.

"Yeah, I'm probably gonna take a nap anyway; I'm exhausted. Give me your bags and I'll take them home." Mary handed them over and with a peck to John's cheek, she caught a cab and drove off.

It was a while before John was able to hail his own taxi, but when one finally pulled over John sat on the seat gratefully, dumping their luggage in the space next to him. He directed the cabbie to his flat and sat back, leaning his head against the window and closing his eyes. He couldn't wait to get home; he'd had little sleep during the honeymoon and airports always made him tired, and it was the same for train stations. He wasn't keen on people bustling about him, being generally rude and just as tired as him. So yes, he was looking forward to a nice sleep.

"Pleasant trip?" the cabbie asked in a gruff voice, and John opened one eye, glancing at the back of the man's head.

"Yeah, it was fine." he said, hoping the cab driver would drop it. When the cap-clad man didn't say anything else, John closed his eye and resumed his dozing.

"Italy, wasn't it?"

John's eyes flew open, and he sat up. "How did you–?" He began to ask, but when he looked in the mirror and saw ice-grey eyes smiling back at him, he groaned.

"And what possessed you to be a cab driver today?" he asked, and Sherlock smirked, whisking off his cap.

"I thought I'd be nice and pick you up."

"Rubbish. What do you want?"

"Lestrade has summoned us to a crime scene." Sherlock announced.

John sighed. "You." he said. "He's summoned you. Greg would at least have the decency to let me settle back home before asking me somewhere."

"This is more fun than going home."

"My bed was looking very inviting."

"I've got crisps."

"I've just had a meal on the plane."

Sherlock was silent for a few moments, clearly thinking of a comeback. John closed his eyes during the wait and considered the possibility of dropping off before Sherlock spoke again.

"I'm driving."

So close.

"Yes, you are." John said. "Where did you even get a taxi from?"

"Borrowed it off someone who owed me a favour."

"And they _don't_ own a restaurant?" John asked, feigning shock. Because, really, it was ridiculous the amount of restaurants they visited where they didn't have to pay for their food because Sherlock had aided the owner.

The detective didn't answer and John glanced at his luggage. "Can we at least stop by my flat so I can drop off my bags?"

"I'll lock the car."

John shook his head and smiled slightly at the image of the two of them climbing out of a taxi at a crime scene and leaving it parked on the side of the road.

Ten minutes later and Sherlock parked the vehicle opposite an alleyway where flashing police cars were stationed and officers were milling about. During the short journey the heavens had opened up and it was now pouring down with rain. As they got out of the car Sherlock grumbled about the effects the miserable weather would have on the crime scene and John grumbled about the warm, cosy bed he knew was waiting for him back in Kensington.

Sherlock glided past all the officers and Lestrade and went straight for the body of a young female sprawled out in the middle of the alleyway. He completely ignored the pelting rain that soaked his coat and dampened his curls, and instead crouched over the woman to look for anything of use.

John sidled up to Lestrade – who was the only person on the scene with protection from the rain – and stepped under his large umbrella. Greg frowned across at the person next to him, prepared to tell them to get back to work, but raised his eyebrows when he saw a soggy army doctor stood next to him looking miserable.

"John!" he exclaimed with a smile. "How are you?"

"Fine, thanks." John smiled back. "Haven't missed this weather."

"I'll bet." Greg agreed. "You're looking tanned. Italy was nice and hot, then?"

"Yeah, it was great. Dare I ask how England's been?"

"Bloody awful." Greg answered. "Hasn't stopped raining for the past fortnight and it's been freezing."

John smiled and rubbed his hands together.

"When did you get back?" the DI asked.

"'Bout an hour ago."

Greg frowned. "And upon your return, you decided your first port of call was a dreary crime scene?"

"I didn't decide." John replied. "Sherlock decided for me. I got into the cab I didn't know he was driving and he drove me here."

"Idiot." Greg muttered, though it looked as though he wanted to say something stronger.

"Agreed."

"Can't he see how tired you are?"

"It's not that obvious, is it?" John asked with a frown.

"What? No, no, you look lovely. I'm just saying he can't expect you to be rearing to go after a long flight."

"Preaching to the choir." John murmured with a tired smile. "Hopefully he'll get it soon and then I can go home."

"Ridiculous!" Sherlock boomed, striding over to where Greg and John were standing. "You can't seriously be this idiotic!"

"Sherlock." John warned quietly.

"The evidence is _right there!_ Look at her left shoe, for crying out loud, and then you've got what you need! Come on, John!" And with that, Sherlock stormed past them and headed for his commandeered cab.

"Barely even five minutes. I think that's a record." John said. "I'd better go, actually. Don't think he's willing to wait for me."

"He missed you, don't worry." Greg smiled.

"Of course he did." John chuckled before following the soaked detective to the taxi and sliding into the front passenger seat whilst Sherlock started the engine.

"Waste of time..." Sherlock muttered to himself as he pulled away from the pavement, and John smiled.

"Will you take me home now?" he asked.

Sherlock sighed. "I suppose." he said.

John gave him some sympathy. "I'm sure a more riveting one will come up soon."

"Doubt it." Sherlock muttered sulkily whilst frowning at the road, the windscreen-wipers working frantically to keep a clear view.

John opted for a change of subject. "My honeymoon was very nice, thanks for asking." he said cheerfully.

"You're welcome." Sherlock replied.

"The food was delicious."

"I'm sure it was."

"We went to the beach."

"How romantic." the detective grumbled dryly.

"And there was a murder a few buildings from our hotel."

" _What_?" Sherlock asked, glancing across at John.

"Eyes on the road!" John exclaimed.

"Why did _you_ get a murder and I didn't?!" Sherlock whined.

"You _did_ get a murder. And anyway, my victim's death may have been just as boring as yours, God rest their souls."

Sherlock huffed pettily and the rest of the journey was conducted in silence. By the time they reached John's flat, it had gone six in the evening.

"Come up for some tea." John said and got out, collecting his luggage before opening the apartment and leading the sullen detective up the stairs and into the living room.

When they were both laden with tea, the pair sat on the sofa and John turned on the TV for some background noise.

"So, what have you been doing this past fortnight?" John asked, sipping his drink.

"Nothing." Sherlock answered. "Lestrade didn't have anything of interest and you weren't here to entertain me. It was achingly boring." he sighed, propping his feet up on the coffee table.

"When was the last time you ate or slept?"

"Yesterday."

"Really?"

"No. It was on Tuesday." Sherlock smirked into his cup as John rolled his eyes and shook his head.

"Well, then, looks like you're staying round for dinner. Mary should be back soon and then we could get take away or something."

Sherlock shrugged indifferently, but he seemed a little less sulky.

John cleared his throat. "So." he began. "Before I left for my honeymoon I promised you I'd listen to this case you'd been on. What happened?"

Sherlock's eyes lit up and he sat straighter. "It started when Lestrade called me to say he'd found a decapitated pig in his office..."

John smiled to himself and settled more into the sofa, listening as Sherlock rambled on.

* * *

It was 10:30pm when Mary finally got back home. Susan had insisted she stay for dinner and she couldn't decline. Exhausted, she trod up the stairs and wondered if John had managed to take a nap or not. She was envious, either way, of the fact that her husband had been able to relax at home.

But it was to her surprise that when she opened the door to the living room she was presented with the sight of Sherlock and John, both fast asleep on the sofa with Sherlock's head on John's shoulder and the doctor's head resting atop his friend's. Mary smiled to herself and couldn't help but snap a picture, before she slid off her shoes, grabbed a blanket and threw it over the pair. She then sat next to John, tugging the blanket over her lap and leaning against her husband, closing her eyes and smiling when she felt John's arm wrap around her shoulders and pull her closer.


End file.
